Elsewhere: Milton Keynes
by Zabbie Q
Summary: [Original London inspired] Poppa and Dustin were able to race in the third heat because the British train was mysteriously scrapped - but how did THAT happen?


"I am going to make a fool of myself," moaned the City of Milton Keynes. The teal driving-trailer car slumped forward and buried his rosy face into the stiff covers of the repair-shop bed. "It's hopeless, Wig. Just hopeless," he mumbled, his lips muffled by the sterilized blanket.

He heard a rustling as his sister, Wigan, shifted against her pillow. The motor car patted Milton's yellow shoulder. "At least you're trying, Milty."

He heaved a sigh. "What's the point?"

His sister made a soft _ssss_ sound in her way of snickering. "For a chap with no power, you did great getting a replacement partner," she pointed out in a tone that she must have thought was reasonable. "There's always that."

Milton rolled his eyes and turned his head to look up at his bespectacled sibling. "It's not like I had any choice in the matter, you know," he frowned at Wigan. "That Rocky bloke couldn't take a hint. I told the van I was on strike, but then he, his two brothers and some other freight trucks just linked up behind me, wanting a ride. Rather forward wagons, the lot of them."

Wigan shook her head, a smile tugging on her dented face. "They probably thought you were being a wind-up merchant," she reasoned. "Who goes on strike after crossing an ocean to get here?"

"Yeah, I thought of _that_ already, Wiggy. Thank you," Milton retorted, picking at the bedding.

What was he going to do? Even if he wanted to race with an American boxcar, he couldn't do anything without Wigan, thanks to their oh-so-clever manufacturers. Milton grimaced, and he could not stop himself from looking again at the damaged metal hat upon his sister's now messy brown curls.

The two were both five years old, having been built as part of the same trainset consisting of fourteen siblings. Like the rest of their brethren and sistren, Milton and Wigan had been named for stations on the West Coast Main Line, and they even looked alike, thanks to the manufacturers wanting each APT prototype consist to look like a harmonious unit. Milton and Wigan both had brown hair, rosy cheeks on round peachy faces, and squat noses. The main difference between the brother and sister were expressed through their individual functions. As the driving trailer who was the "face" of their race team, Milton sported a fake brown handlebar mustache as part of his racing outfit and a teal skullcap to keep his brown hair from getting in the way of his work helmet. The bespectacled Wigan the motor car on the other hand wore a pretty steel hat which concealed the pantograph needed to supply electricity to Milton when they were on the race track.

"Rocky and the other Yanks have only worked with diesel freight engines on this side of the pond," Milton told his sister. "They've probably never seen a vehicle who needs a pantograph before - but all the other National champions are electrics!" He groaned. "They know I don't have my own pantograph. I just know they're all laughing at us, Wig - the press too!"

Wigan's fingers moved to his head, and she gave a strand of his brown wig an affectionate tug. "Well," she said bravely, "our family has survived worse."

Milton could only grunt at that understatement. Since his earliest memory, one thing after another had seemed to go wrong for the trainset of fourteen siblings, whether it was groups within British Rail saying that the prototype vehicles were the wrong way to advance progress or having the diesel High Speed Train outshine them at every turn. The worst day had been three years prior when their company had invited the press to take a ride on the tilting train, only for the humans to get motion sickness and make the APT-P the laughing stock of the rails. Things had only begun to brighten for the family when Milton and Wigan had entered the national race. Together, they had won their chance to head to the international trial in the US, beating out the HST and even the Royal Train.

Yet their good fortune could not last. Just three hours before Wigan had been rolling along a track atop an embankment, taking a shortcut a local caboose had recommended to meet Milton before the race. However, a freight train had come along, taking an unexpected detour. Wigan had tried to step off the rails to make room, but she had lost her balance and tumbled down the stony embankment, denting herself in several places and almost drowning in the shallow river. Fortunately, the repair shops in Wilton Yard were said to be excellent, but that put Milton in an awkward spot. Without the electricity his sister provided, Milton could not hope to win, let alone get up a hill by himself.

After a moment of silence, he said, "Perhaps I should withdraw from the race. Better than embarrassing myself."

Wigan snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, a stern frown crossing her damaged features. "Hey! Don't say such a thing, Milton Keynes," she chided. "The repair trucks have been sending shunters to other stations to ask for new parts for me. I might be able to race if they get back in time."

"Or it'll be too late," replied Milton. "I can't take Rocky One up a mountain side in this condition, can I?"

Wigan shook her head. "With all the bad luck we've had, something good ought to happen, Milty. It's statistics."

"Maybe we used up all our good luck just getting here," answered Milton.

He pushed himself up at last, causing his chair to squeak, but he slumped forward, propping his striped forearms upon his similarly striped knees. Just yesterday he had been proud to wear this costume. It was a tradition for the Nationals to wear outfits for the race instead of their normal liveries; Milton's handlebar mustache, rosy cheeks and the Union Jack on his chest apparatus made him look like an upper-crust gentleman, which had looked natural beside the Japanese train's samurai costume or the German train's double-headed eagle. Now, he felt like a fool.

After a long moment of silence, Milton said, "At least Greaseball raced in the first heat already." Greaseball the reigning diesel champion had won the first coveted spot in the final race, and his elimination heat had resulted in the Italian and Japanese racers receiving quite a few new dents on their once spotless metal. "If I'm going to embarrass myself, at least I don't have to go up against him tonight."

Wigan patted his shoulder in response. "Roll around outside. Clear your head. Then come back and see me wheel out of here, bruv."

Milton grimaced, but he got to his skates, more to humor her than anything else. Still, he reflected that maybe a walk around Wilton Yard would help him find a good hiding place for when the press would inevitably come after him.

Milton grabbed his yellow-and-teal racing helmet, which sported the double arrows of British Rail, and - thinking better of it - he tugged one of Wigan's brown curls, causing her to swat at his hand with feigned annoyance. He managed a single chuckle at that before he rolled out into the night air.

* * *

" _Control, Control! Thirty seconds to close of entry for heat two! Engines report!_ "

Thousands of voices cheered in the distance even before the speakers surrounding the yard fell silent.

"Next heat's mine," Milton mourned to himself, trudging his way from the repair shop and onto one of the more secluded tracks with only a handful of lampposts. Each clank of his wheels on the rails sounded like a second hand ticking away on a clock, spelling his family's doom. _What's going to become of us after tonight?_

His thoughts turned to his other twelve brown-haired siblings back home. While here in the Rocky Mountains the station clocks read 10:00 pm, that meant it was 5:00 am back on the West Coast Main Line. The fam had no way to know what had happened to Wigan. Had they all gotten up to watch the race by now? Were his brothers making coffee to keep them all awake? Were his sisters curled up under blankets, rubbing sleep from their eyes or giggling over which National racer was the most handsome? Had Stafford bought biscuits the night before for snacks? Did Glasgow remember to buy enough bangers for them to make breakfast? Had Rugby told everyone to let her sleep until Milton came on the box? What would they think when Milton rolled in with a boxcar or did not show up at all?

Milton flicked on the light on the helmet under his arm, not really caring which way the track led as long as he could find a nice bridge or close-off tunnel to use for a hiding place. After tonight, it was over for him and the other APT-P trains. How would they support themselves then? Milton had no remarkable talents outside of racing, certainly nothing that he could use for money. His coach brother, Crewe, fancied himself a bit of a tailor, but he wouldn't be able to make enough to help all fourteen of them. Same for his sister, Penrith, and her baking skills. Unless they could think of something, all of them would probably be abandoned on some forgotten track to rust, assuming they weren't dismantled for parts.

 _What can I even do?_

The earth on either side of the track had started to rise, and both slopes had been packed with stones to make retaining walls. Feeling a bit like a lab rat in a maze, Milton followed the wall with his gaze, right to the trestle straddling his track up ahead.

...And he jolted, clanking his limbs, when he saw a red truck step out of the shadow of the bridge to wave at him.

"Breaker, breaker, good neighbor!" grinned the red truck. "You heading to the race track?"

Milton straightened his shoulders. "Yeah, in a bit," he replied with a forced disinterest, trying to regain some of his dignity as he approached the wagon. As his helmet's light fell upon the wagon's mustache and baseball cap, Milton realized he had seen this wooden man before. He was C.B., the red caboose who had partnered with Hashamoto the bullet train for the first heat. From what Milton had heard of that race, the Japanese train had crashed, but his American partner seemed to be in one piece.

As Milton allowed himself to coast, he gave the little wagon a quick look. He had heard of cabooses, which were supposed to be the States' equivalent of a brake van, but he had never spoken to one before. C.B. certainly looked like a cheery truck that could grace the pages of a children's picture book: red cheeks, bright smile, twinkling eyes. He even gave Milton a salute as the British racer braked beside him. The energetic look of him belied the advanced years which a glance at his wooden body revealed.

"If you don't mind my saying so," C.B. said, tilting his head to study Milton, "that's a mighty fine mustache you got there." He stroked his own haired lip.

"Thanks," he said, deciding not to mention he usually didn't wear this handlebar mustache. Wigan had thought it was "too much" for his racing costume, but he had told her that was the whole point. "Looks like we're both trains of good taste," he added with a polite smile.

"Roger that!" C.B. gave him a thumbs up, his dark eyes sparkling even brighter. "You're the British train, ain't ya? Mr. City Keynes, was it?"

"City of Milton Keynes," replied the driving trailer.

"Nice to meet you." The caboose gave a toothy smile. He jerked his head toward the blackened track ahead. "Can I get a ride?"

Milton shuffled his wheels. "Er, well, I need to get to the race track."

"Copy that! I'm heading there myself." A modest expression crossed his mustached face. "I like to be of use to the other racers, even if it's just grabbing a water bottle. Good to be helpful, do you copy?"

Milton reluctantly allowed him to grab the loops of his belt. Fortunately, C.B. was light, and Milton had built up his mechanical muscles during his months of training, so the British train thought he did a convincing job of pulling the truck along. The light from Milton's helmet cast a steady beam on the wooden ties as they moved, and with every plank he passed, Milton cursed his rotten luck.

They had not been rolling for more than two minutes before the caboose chirped, "Our local newspaper ran a piece about you and your sister in the British National Trial. The article called you the 'newest sensation of British Rail.'"

"Must not have been a Brit writing," Milton muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately, C.B. had heard him. "How do you mean?"

Milton picked up speed. "Nothing."

C.B. continued his upbeat side of the conversation: "The paper said that your train set a speed record of one-sixty-two miles an hour or something."

"Yeah. The fourteen of us worked hard for it."

C.B. made a sound of surprise. "Fourteen kids, huh? That's quite a grocery bill for your parents!" A cheery laugh followed. "You must go faster when it's just you and your sis then."

Milton did not respond.

The track began to slope down, and the hill on Milton's right vanished to reveal a dark valley beneath them. Milton put on his brakes, and he felt C.B. do the same. Milton placed his helmet on his head to free his hands, and his headlight shone further down the track. The driving car swallowed as he saw the grade only grew steeper as the track progressed.

Would he able to get back up?

"Some of the tracks are tricky up here in the mountains," C.B. spoke up. "No wonder so many accidents happened this year to the race partners."

Milton nodded, focusing the light of his helmet on the track ahead. He tried not to think of the coaches who were holed up in the repair shop alongside his sister. Apparently, accidents were all too common in these parts, and hardly any of the locals batted an eye when every racer but Greaseball and Rusty lost their partners to one incident or another this past week.

"How's your sissy doing?" C.B. asked. "We all got a shock when we heard what happened to her."

"She's managing," replied Milton, wishing the truck would quiet so that he could concentrate on navigating them down.

The caboose made a sympathetic click of his tongue. "A collision, wasn't it? Glad it wasn't worse."

Milton tensed. "Someone gave her bad directions." He didn't mention it had been a caboose who had provided the ill-timed help - that might sound like he was blaming all cabooses, and he wasn't. "Wigan thinks she should be better by tomorrow."

"Praise the Starlight," sighed the red truck. "Some of us were thinking of getting her a fruit basket. Does she have any preferences?"

"Wigan will like anything," replied the teal racer, and his tension momentarily abated. Despite the danger ahead of them, Milton felt a little touched by C.B.'s generosity and the implication of other rolling stock contributing to a get-well present for his sister. After all the mocking he had endured with the British press, he felt a wave of gratitude to this stranger and his friends.

At last the track began to level, and Milton let out a breath he realized he had been holding. However, just as he began to relax, C.B. tapped Milton's shoulder and pointed ahead. "The race track is to the left, up at the wye."

Milton peered through the holes of his helmet, and his face fell. The track split ahead as C.B. said, but the left track led up a hill, just as steep as the one he had just descended.

Milton slowed as he approached, judging the grade. The track had a latticed safety railing on its right, separating the rails from the ledge. If he gripped the bar, he could probably pull himself up, but there was no way he would be able to do it with C.B. on his belt.

Mitlon braked at the bottom. "I like to stretch before climbing hills," he said hastily, twisting away to make the caboose release his couplings. "It's highly invigorating. You should try it." With his back to the hill, he faced the valley and threw one arm behind his shoulder, using his other hand to push his elbow back.

How could he get out of this situation with as much dignity as possible?

"When you get to my age, you see a lot of things, Mr. Keynes. Like when I worked on the Pennsylvania Railroad, I got to meet a few freight engines who were electric." He tapped a finger against his baseball cap. "I know what they need to power themselves."

Milton turned away. Indignation created a slow burn inside him. If C.B. knew he needed power, then why did the little truck send him down a track with two hills? Did the stupid van want to mock him like everyone else? "I can't help how I was built," he said through his teeth.

"Don't I know it! I was built to be a boxcar before becoming a 'boose. Still didn't stop some snobby shanties from snubbing me."

Milton suspected a shanty was some American kind of train, but C.B.'s little speech didn't make him feel better. He looked out at the hilly trees in the distance, framed by the night sky.

The caboose continued, "I really admire you, Mr. Keynes. Anyone else would have quitted in your wheels, but you've held your head high this entire time." He clicked his tongue. "I read about what happened when the press took a ride in one of the APT-P trains, too, you know. In the paper I read, it said British reporters weren't too kind to you guys. But you crossed an ocean to be here anyway."

"Well, stiff upper lip and all that," Milton said icily.

He heard C.B. roll closer, and when the red truck spoke, his voice had lost its cheerfulness. "Hey, I know a thing or two about so-called company loyalty. Us cabooses have been around for ages, but once a little bit of new technology can do our jobs, the railroads start laying us off."

Milton finally looked at his companion. "New technology?"

C.B. gave a grim nod, his mouth twitching beneath his mustache. "Know what a F.R.E.D. is? I didn't think so, but the short version is that it is this little device that gets put on the last wagon on a freight train." He held up a crooked index finger and thumb, indicating its miniature size. "It monitors the train, so cabooses and their conductors don't need to. The railroads started cutting down on their crew to save them a few Benjamins each pay day, and cabooses are left to decompose."

Milton stared, flabbergasted. "That's just…" He tried to find a good word to describe what he had heard, but none seemed to carry the right weight.

C.B. gave an elaborate shrug, looking up toward the sparkling sidereal specks in the sky. "Tale as old as time," he said. "It happened to the steamers, and it'll happen to us all eventually." To Milton's surprise, the wooden truck's grin returned, beaming like a torch at summer camp. "But I know how to make do."

"You do?"

C.B. bobbed his head like a floating ball on a fishing line. He hummed, " _I get by with a little help from my friends_." He winked. "There's someone in this yard who can help you."

"Who?"

"Greaseball."

Milton glared at him. Greaseball, the train that regularly roughed up the competition every year? The same locomotive the other racers accused of cheating even though no one could prove it? The caboose must have thought he was stupid. "Are you winding me up?" he demanded.

A shocked look appeared on the older truck's face. "Why would I lie? Sure, G.B. can be rough on the track, but it was his idea to get your sister that fruit basket, you know."

"Him?"

"Sure! Greaseball is always doing great stuff. He just doesn't announce it all the time to the media because of how his mama raised him to not boast about charity. G.B. helped me out when Control wanted to get rid of the cabooses. Still got a job, don't I?" C.B. looped his thumbs on his black belt. "If you want to cut ties with fickle Britain, he could convince Control to hire you and your sibs and move you here. Control has electric lines for your kind of train. You guys will be riding the gravy train for the rest of your days."

Milton studied his innocent-looking face. He seemed to mean it. "What's the catch?"

C.B.'s mustache twitched as his smile widened. "All he'll probably ask is that you do a little tiny favor. Maybe even before the last race is over."

The racer frowned. "What kind of favor?"

C.B. raised his hands in a laid-back shrug, giving Milton a playful shake of his head, but even in the pale light, Milton thought the caboose's eyes became a little more hawk-like. "Oh, who can say? Maybe he'll ask you to take a message to his sweetie. Maybe he'll ask you for your mummy's scone recipe. Maybe he'll ask you to help him out before the race starts. I would suggest you be open for anything, good neighbor."

Milton had not lived long as prototype trains went, but he had not been built yesterday either. Maybe it was the bad luck he had experienced in his five short years of life, but he doubted an American diesel was looking to play fairy godmother to fourteen cars on an electric train. He also did not like the sound of this favor C.B. had mentioned. He had a feeling it wouldn't be something Greaseball would want the local newspapers finding out about, whatever it was.

...But what choice did he have?

C.B. folded his arms. His smile remained in place, but Milton thought his dark eyes looked a little less bright. "Worth trying, just to see, right?" he encouraged. "Would be better for you and those thirteen siblings you got, huh?"

Milton fiddled with his helmet to keep from answering right away. He couldn't race tonight without Wigan. No victory for the APT-P meant he would go home a failure. That would probably convince British Rail to scrap the APT project and its prototypes along with it. Then what would happen to his family?

"I - Well, I - "

However, before he could say more, a voice above his head spoke: "City of Milton Keynes."

Milton jolted and looked up. He had not noticed it before, but where the tracks split at the wye, a pillar had been set up with one of Control's speakers. Milton then noticed a security camera beneath the funnel-like apparatus, and he quickly straightened his shoulders. "What is it, Mr. Control?"

The youthful voice of the race organizer was business-like, but an amiable tone could be heard even in the electronic crackle of the old speaker: "The repair trucks have got the parts for your sister. They think they can fix Wigan in time for heat three."

Relief cut through his inner turmoil like a beam of light through a midnight darkness. "Brilliant!" he cheered, clasping his hands.

"You can collect her in twenty minutes."

As the speaker fell silent, Milton turned to his companion. He had no regrets saying, "Thanks, C.B., but I know I can win the race with Wigan."

The caboose smiled, holding up a friendly fist. "No problem, buddy! Good numbers to you both - that's 'best wishes' to you laymen," he explained at Milton's confused look.

Milton turned back the way they had come - and he stopped when he saw the grade stretching up above him. "Erm…" He looked at his companion. "Any ideas of how to get back?"

C.B.'s face lit up like a signal flare. "Ten-four! I know a shortcut that'll take you right to the repair shop's door." He pointed back toward the wye, this time to the right track that led away from the race track. "We take this to a tunnel, and I'll show you how to get to the upper level from there. C'mon!"

* * *

Control's yard was famous for its novelty tracks. Whole bridges could spin and tilt with a few keystrokes on a computer while other sections of track could rise from the earth to allow access to hidden tunnels or spin like the turntables of old. Following C.B.'s direction, Milton pulled his companion right to a safety rail separating the line from a nasty drop. The track plunged right into the latticed railing, and Milton saw this part of the barrier was actually a gate. His eyes trailed up, and he saw a bridge above them, supported by four pillars that no doubt allowed for easy vertical sliding.

"So, it's like a lift to get us up there?" Milton guessed.

"Ten-four!" beamed C.B. "We ride that to the upper level, and you can head over to your sister at the repair shop." The caboose moved over to a small metal box beside one of the lift's pillars which Milton had not noticed before. It looked like a control panel. "It's been on the fritz lately. This section of the yard has no security cameras, so Control forgets to get it repaired. But I know a trick." The wooden man dusted his fingers against the door on his chest. "I'm a bit of a mechanic myself."

"I wish I had that skill," said Milton. "You must be clever."

"That's why cabooses are called brain boxes," winked the truck. "This is a two-train job. When I tell you, open the safety door while I play with the controls."

Milton stared down at the ledge below. "You sure?"

The wagon held up a thumb. "Trust me. I do this all the time."

The caboose removed a side panel on the controls, humming under his breath. "Good thing your sister's healthy, eh?" he said, fiddling with a few wires. "I'd like to see you two go your one-sixty-two mph record - well, faster than that, right?"

"Yep."

C.B. poked at something inside the control box. "You know, Greaseball's top speed is one-seventeen miles an hour. Might be fun to see how you guys do against him - if you get to the final."

"Don't worry. I will," the British racer declared, and he took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He would win for his family and his train. Then the press would leave them alone at last, and maybe they wouldn't be just prototypes anymore. Maybe the company would alter them into service trains, and they would have a long life on the railways.

C.B. straightened and pointed to the door. "Okay, it's ready. You open the door, and I'll flip the switch."

Milton had to fiddle with the latch, but the door soon opened. Milton stepped to the left to allow the gate to swing open without hitting his leg, and for a moment, there was little more than a few centimeters of track between him and the ledge.

"Now, what?" he began to say, but the words never left his mouth.

Suddenly, hands collided with his back, and he tumbled forward, right over the edge.

He was too shocked to scream.

The fall barely lasted even five seconds. Right before Milton collided with the rocky ground, the last thing he remembered was C.B.'s voice calling after him, "Good numbers, sucker!"

Then everything went dark.

* * *

" _Control! Control! Cancellation! Cancellation! The British train has been scrapped! Space for late entry! Space for late entry!_ "

Rocky One looked disappointed. "I was supposed to race with that guy."

Beside him, his brother, Three, said, "Hope he's okay."

However, Poppa McCoy held up a triumphant fist. "Hear that, Rusty?" he grinned at his shocked foster-son. "There's a light at the end of the tunnel."

"Poppa, you're mad!" the younger steamer cried. "You can't race! You haven't gone faster than eight miles an hour for ten years!"

The elder train ignored him. He jerked his arm toward the nearby hopper, beckoning the large truck to hitch on. "C'mon, Dustin!"

The hopper obeyed, and the two rolled to join the third elimination heat.

THE END

* * *

A/N: I took some artistic license with the APT-P train like having Milton's trainset be the one to set the world record instead of the historical one. I felt it worked better with his character. Hopefully, this made you guys a little more interested in the forgotten British boy.


End file.
